Chapter 14: The Photograph
The Dream House
Book One
I wasn't planning on opening the journal that night.
At least that's what I told myself.
Funny how often we lie to ourselves.
Not big lies.
Just little ones.
The kind that sound reasonable.
The kind nobody questions.
Like:
"I'll only watch one episode."
"I'll start my diet tomorrow."
Or in my case:
"I'm not touching that journal until morning."
Yeah.
That lasted about thirty-seven minutes.
Not that I was counting.
I sat cross-legged on my couch staring at it.
The apartment was unusually quiet.
The kind of quiet that only exists late at night.
No traffic.
No neighbors arguing.
No random sirens.
Just silence.
And me.
And the journal.
I looked around my apartment.
The place wasn't much.
A small couch.
A coffee table.
A bookshelf that held more sketchbooks than actual books.
A few paintings leaning against the wall waiting for someone to love them enough to buy them.
The same overdue bill sitting near the kitchen counter.
I should probably pay that.
Then again, paying bills generally requires money.
A small detail many bill collectors seem to overlook.
I laughed to myself.
The sound felt strange.
For years I had dreamed of becoming a successful artist.
Yet somehow my current reality consisted mostly of ramen noodles and creative optimism.
The glamorous life.
I glanced back toward the journal.
Still there.
Still waiting.
Still annoying me.
Finally I gave up.
"Fine."
I reached for it.
The leather felt cold this time.
Not warm like before.
Just old.
Ancient.
Like something that had spent years waiting for the right hands to find it.
I slowly opened it.
The pages smelled exactly how old books smell.
A mixture of dust.
Paper.
Time.
I don't know how else to explain it.
If memories had a scent, I imagine they would smell something like that.
I flipped through several pages.
Most contained handwritten notes.
Thoughts.
Observations.
Stories.
Some pages contained sketches.
Others contained symbols I didn't recognize.
I paused at one drawing.
It was another sketch of the mysterious woman.
The Keeper of Fire.
The same eyes.
The same expression.
The same impossible familiarity.
I don't know why, but every time I looked at her I felt like I was forgetting something important.
Like trying to remember a dream after waking up.
The harder you try, the faster it disappears.
I turned another page.
Nothing.
Another page.
Nothing.
Then something slipped onto my lap.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
At first I thought it was the same picture from the oak tree.
It wasn't.
This one was different.
Much older.
More faded.
The edges were damaged.
Water stains covered one corner.
I moved closer to the lamp.
My heart immediately started beating faster.
There were two people standing in the photograph.
A woman.
And a little girl.
The woman was unmistakable.
The Keeper of Fire.
No question.
No doubt.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same woman.
But it wasn't her that made my stomach drop.
It was the little girl standing beside her.
The little girl looked exactly like me.
Not similar.
Not close.
Exactly.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
Even the way she stood felt familiar.
I stared at the photograph.
Then stared some more.
Then stared even longer.
My artist brain immediately began searching for explanations.
Maybe it was coincidence.
Maybe I was imagining it.
Maybe—
No.
I wasn't imagining it.
The resemblance was impossible to ignore.
I grabbed my phone and immediately texted Luna.
You awake?
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Unfortunately.
I smiled.
Need you to see something.
A few seconds later:
Journal?
Journal.
I'm coming.
I checked the time.
11:48 PM.
Normal people were sleeping.
Apparently we were no longer normal people.
Not that we had been normal lately anyway.
Twenty minutes later there was a knock at my door.
Luna entered carrying a large hoodie over her sundress.
I immediately noticed the flowers.
Even at midnight she somehow smelled like flowers.
I don't know how she did it.
Maybe flower shop employees develop floral superpowers.
She kicked off her shoes.
"Okay."
She pointed at me.
"Whatever this is better be worth driving across the city."
I handed her the photograph.
The smile disappeared from her face.
Immediately.
She looked at the picture.
Then at me.
Then back at the picture.
Then at me again.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Finally she whispered:
"Maya..."
The way she said my name told me everything.
She saw it too.
The little girl looked exactly like me.
And suddenly the mystery wasn't just strange anymore.
It was personal.
Very personal.
Luna slowly sat beside me.
The photograph remained between us.
Neither of us wanted to say what we were thinking.
Because once we said it out loud...
It would become real.
And somehow I had a feeling that real was far more dangerous than mystery.